Touch
by DragonLadyRM
Summary: What does someone like Fujimiya Aya find attractive in another person, especially when that person is so different from him? (Yaoi references and hints of sex.) One-shot, part of larger arc.


Fandom: Weiss Kreuz  
Length: 700 words  
Rating: M  
Time frame: Takes place during _Kapitel _before episode 16. Part of my _Siblings_ arc.  
Warnings: Includes Aya thinking, so angst/pathos.Yaoi references and hints of sex.  
Notes: None this time.  
Summary: What does someone like Fujimiya Aya find attractive in another person, especially when that person is so different from him?

**

* * *

**

**Title: Touch**

His favorite were the hands.

Let others guess he favored his teammate's mouth or tongue; both were logical choices and everyone thought he was ruled by that alone. Except where family was involved, of course.

Honestly (and he liked to think he was honest, even if he shared the results of that honesty with no one else, like so much in his life), it was a wicked mouth, a cunning mouth. So often it got its owner into trouble, but then it got him back out again, too.

And the tongue? It could be cutting, cruel, and hurtful, as all tongues were. Tongues were used to form words and what good were those? Even in seduction it still remained sharp, its deft movements carving moans, even whimpers from him, normally the silent one.

Eyes? Why did everyone think the eyes mattered? They didn't communicate any more than ears did. Less, in fact. If a person claimed someone's (_his_, an inner voice whispered, _oh so bright and green, lovely lovely eyes_) eyes were soulful, deep, caring, or any of that rot, it was laziness on their part or misdirection by their owner. A dispassionate person knew the truth: eyes did none of these. It was the tissue around them that semaphored intent. Not eyes, however shining one might claim them to be.

But hands, ah, hands. Hands didn't lie. They were muscle, flesh, and bone, all poetry in motion. Anger? They clenched. Sympathy? They reached. Seduction? They stroked. Yes, one could suppress intent, but there were still spasms, tiny ones. A trained observer, one practiced in the art of their owner (beautiful and gentle, his favorite masterwork) could read them.

And like their owner, they too were beautiful. What did the scars matter? Not to him. The thin white lines only enhanced their attraction, balancing every gentle touch with an equally silent message: _this person is dangerous_. Or to put it differently: _this person can protect himself. He's safe from you._

So when those hands found their way to the small of his back, right above his waist, as they always did this time of day when they were _here_ and _alone_, it was alright to place himself in their care. To allow them to brush up his spine. Under his clothes. Igniting his nerves.

He swore they left a trail of fire, one inversely proportional to the lightness of their touch. Was it because there was no hesitation by their owner? Or because the trails were ones they had mapped before?

It didn't matter. All it took was a moment of their touch and he swore he _glowed_, brighter than his hair, brighter than the sun. He burned, and was consumed.

After that, he could bear the touch of mouth and tongue. He could forget how that treacherous mouth had kissed others, how that razor tongue complained he was too withdrawn, too cruel. Him, cruel? Hah. The world was cruel, not him. He did what he had to, no more. The exceptions were moments like these, when those hands _stroked_ and _tugged_ and _pulled_ --

AAAH!

* * *

Yohji pulled back and looked at the still-shaking form in his arms. 

"Aya?" He shook him. "Aya, are you okay?"

It was another thirty seconds (a very worried thirty seconds for Yohji) or so before the panting slowed enough for a "Hn" to be heard.

"Are you okay? I thought you passed out for a moment there."

The "Don't be stupid, Kudoh," was too much a reflex to take it personally, and in fact it relieved rather than offended him. Aya's breathing remained labored. Concerned, he reached out and -- not sure if it would be allowed (rules were rules, but while affection wasn't allowed he'd gotten away with similar touches in earlier afterglows) -- he carefully smoothed the sweat-soaked hair away from Aya's face. He was prepared with an excuse but to his delight he found he didn't need it, as instead of the expected bark it was greeted with a leaning into his hand as he continued to trace the shape of that red-clad skull. He knew better than to comment, remaining silent and enjoying this small emotional gesture as the rare creature it was.

...end...

posted to LJ 24 May 2005


End file.
